


counting the stars as they go by

by starblessed



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bars and Pubs, First Meetings, Friendship, M/M, Meet-Ugly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24131506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: Some idiot is sticking ass-first outta the dumpster.“No!” The idiot’s friend exclaims, bouncing on his heels as he tries to grab hold of a thrashing, sneaker-capped leg. “Get out of the — get out — this ain’t my job! Do I look like your mother to you?”I don’t want to know,Gene acknowledges.I don’t need to know. It’s late. I’m tired. I’ve got a shift in twelve hours.“Everything alright here?” he blurts out, before god-given common sense can talk him out of it.
Relationships: Babe Heffron/Eugene Roe
Comments: 2
Kudos: 73





	counting the stars as they go by

**Author's Note:**

> I gave this fic a really poetic title but 55% of it is just dumpster diving
> 
> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries Band of Brothers, and I mean no disrespect to the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [renelemaires](http://renelemaires.tumblr.com/)!

It’s been a long time since Gene picked up a late shift at _Smokey’s Bar._ Longer than he’s proud of, really. Medical school don’t pay for itself, even on a scholarship, and it’s a stretch to think that changes on an intern’s salary. Just because his daily routine is filled with a lot more triages and tracheotomies now doesn’t mean he’s forgotten where he came from. 

Hell, Gene spent two years in this cozy backstreet establishment, serving drinks well into the midnight hours with his textbooks stashed just below the counter. The job at Smokey’s was the only reason he could afford an apartment at the time; without it, he might not‘ve even had a shirt on his back. The regular crowd was always great, the bar’s owner was a true gentilhomme, and there was no hard feelings when Gene left to start his internship. Smokey accepted it with grace, and everybody wished him well.

Of course, if he’d known he’d be back just a few months later, he’d have protested the going away party.

“You’re a real lifesaver,” Smokey declares as Gene steps back behind the familiar counter. “Skinny’s out tonight — something about helping his Granny with her pet cat, which I’d be glad to believe, if I didn’t know for a fact his Granny lives across the country — and we called Blithe about ten times, but no answer there.”

“It’s no problem.” Gene offers his old boss a thin-lipped smile, running hands hands lightly over the oiled bar top. It’s been a while; best to get the feel of the place before the night rush arrives.

“It is, though, Gene. Big favor you’re doing me. If you ever need anything —“

“Don’t worry about it.” Maybe in two years he and Smokey got past the point of “boss and employee”. Gene wouldn't call them friends, but they’re close enough. Helping out a friend is just what you do, and you don’t complain about it. “I’m happy to be here. Missed these old walls more than I realized.”

Smokey barks out a laugh. “Yeah! See it every night, and you get tired real fast.” The bar door rattles open without warning, ushering a familiar crew — half a dozen guys, all with the same swagger and grins on their faces. “Same old ugly mugs each night, too!” Smokey exclaims, brightening like the sun’s come out at midnight. “Not sure why we let you guys in at this point!”

“You’d go broke without us, Smoke!” Bill Guarnere’s voice is loud as ever, and as rowdy as Gene remembers it. “You know we pay half the bills ‘round here.”

“Lose us and you lose your nightlife too,” Floyd Talbert adds with a grin, already stripping off his heavy jacket. 

The atmosphere is familiar; every corner is known, and fondly remembered. Across the room, a 90s rock beat pulses from a pseudo-modern jukebox, all but rattling that side of the building. Smokey’s has got a dance floor, a pool table, a dartboard... everything a person could need for a rowdy night out. “Except the dancers,” Smokey said once. “We tried to put in these nice cages, but seems like you need permits and all that. Why waste the money when Luz gets up on the tables after a few drinks for free?”

It’s a respectable place, and a cozy one. The city will never feel like home — home to Gene is warm air, thick as honey against your skin, the symphony of the bayou floating around you like zydeco in the night air — but _Smokey’s_ is close. The closest Gene feels _anywhere_ in the city, and he’ll take what he can get.

Gene settles back behind the bar, and falls into the familiar dance; he still remembers all the steps, and hasn’t lost his touch yet. Smokey’s isn’t a cocktail place; Gene’s job is generally restricted to serving up beer and chips, with the occasional harder drink coming in. He can toss together a good whiskey sour, and his Dark and Stormy’s are excellent, so he’s been told. It shouldn’t be this easy to pick up the old rhythm again; his days since leaving Smokey’s have been filled with nonstop work. The nights he isn’t on shift, he spends studying, memorizing so many conditions and treatments that there shouldn’t be room for anything else. The brain works in mysterious ways, though. This old job carved grooves into his memory, and he slides back into them now without even having to try.

George Luz grins at him, loudly proclaiming how good it is to have Gene back. “Place just wasn’t the same without you, Doc,” he declares, and a round of cheers from Luz’s group echo their agreement. Muck and Malarkey team up on him, pestering him about how work at the hospital is going. Gene suspects they’re only in it to hear the stories every doctor acquired over time. He humors them with one about a man who’s ent swimming in the buff, ending up with a fish stuck where no fish should ever be. Offhandedly, he tacks on a mention about the frequent cases of alcohol poisoning they get in the ER. Plenty of gory detail to go into there. From the grimaces on the duo’s face, and the way Muck eyes his third beer of the night warily, they definitely get the message.

A ruckus near the dance floor rings out, distracting Gene from mixing a whiskey-and-lime. His hands fumble with the bottle; it nearly slips from his grip, but he catches it without looking. The commotion is much more interesting. some spaghetti-limbed kid, all deer-in-the-headlights, is squared off against Roy Cobb, who’s already had one drink too many. Flushed and surly-eyed, Cobb steps up into the kid’s face, rearing up like a pissed off moode.

“You think I can’t hear you? What, you think no one in here hears you running your mouth?”

“Christ, buddy, I didn’t say a word about you!” the kid replies, stumbling back a clumsy step. “Why don’t you siddown, huh?”

“Don’t need to sit down, don’t need _you_ to tell me —“

Now, Smokey’s isn’t the sort of place where fights break out as a rule; sometimes men get a bit riled up, but it rarely turns ugly. When it does, they’ve got Bull on hand to break up any fight before it can start, and probably break some costly furniture in the process… but it’s Bull’s night off. By now, the rest of the bar’s taken notice of the fight. Tension thrums through the room like a live wire, sparking off and just itching to catch on something. Everyone’s watching them, and no one’s looking towards the other side of the room. Gene does, and he spots the kindling.

Bill Guarnere, fists clenched and face red, is slicing straight through the crowd. At his heels is another kid, gangly, with a mop of messy ginger hair; he looks twice as pissed off as Bill, but doesn’t wear it quite as threateningly.

Gene moves forward without a sound, setting his drink on the table. In a few seconds, the situation’s gonna get three times worse. Better snuff it out before they get the chance.

**_“Cobb.”_ **

Gene’s the quiet sort by nature — but when he wants to, his voice can ring through a room, cutting over shouts and curses as clear as a roll of thunder. Before he spoke, he might as well’ve not even been in the room. Suddenly, every eye’s on him, and Smokey’s is silent. He braces himself against the bar, red-hot gaze trained on the troublemaker. “Come here.” One hand gestures Cobb over; it’s not a suggestion. “Free drink for your trouble. Sit down, we’ll talk.”

“Don’t need to talk,” Cobb replies, voice dropping low and rough. The kid takes the opportunity to remove himself from the situation, scurrying back to his friends’ side. Bill Guarnere claps him on the shoulder, and sends a glance towards Gene; his nod, short and grateful, is all it takes to finish the threat off. Reluctantly, with the tension broken, Cobb trudges towards the bar and accepts the beer Gene slides towards him.

“Now,” Gene says, strictly business. “What’s goin’ on with you? You tell me, I’m here to listen.”

Offering an ear to a drunk’s sorrows is always a shot in the dark. God forbid Cobb disappointed. Gene ends up spending the next forty minutes listening to Roy Cobb’s woes about his job, his girl, and everything in between — until his last drink’s done, and he’s vented enough that he no longer seems ready to snap. Gene calls the taxi for him, and sees him out.

It all goes smoothly after that. Not an interesting shift; for his first time back, and probably his last time, Gene’s a little let down. At least on his last night there was cake. Tonight, all he gets it a thank-you text from Smokey, complete with copious emojis, and a few “see ya, Gene!” and “thanks a lot, Gene!”s at last call. Once all the patrons have cleared out and the bar’s gone dark, Gene lingers in the doorway for just a minute before locking up. Just one more minute… and then he’ll say goodbye to the old place. For good, this time.

“Aw christ, Julian, my goddamn shoes!”

A shrill voice echoing from around the corner… kind of kills the moment.

Uncertain, Gene lets the door fall shut, and hastily turns his key in the lock. Something about that voice is familiar, but he can’t put a finger on it. There’s no one else in sight, not even any stragglers from closing time… but as he tucks his key in his pocket and rounds the corner, the source of the disturbance makes itself painfully clear.

Some idiot is sticking ass-first outta the dumpster.

“No!” The idiot’s friend exclaims, bouncing on his heels as he tries to grab hold of a thrashing, sneaker-capped leg. “Get out of the — get _out_ — this ain’t my job! Do I look like your mother to you?”

“Ain't my kink, babe,” echoes a voice from within. One second later, and the set of legs vanished completely; the dumpster consumes its victim, leaving nothing behind but a loud rustling, and the clank of limbs against metal.

 _I don’t want to know,_ Gene acknowledges, weighing the situation like a detective at a crime scene. _I don’t need to know. It’s late. I’m tired. I’ve got a shift in twelve hours._

“Everything alright here?” he blurts out, before god-given common sense can talk him out of it.

The friend turns on his heels, with a soft grunt of surprise. Immediately, Gene realizes why he sounded so familiar — the head of messy red hair is familiar, as are the lanky limbs and the telltale freckled Irish skin. Bill Guarnere’s buddy, in the flesh.

Since it’s definitely not Bill in the dumpster, Gene’s got a good clue who it is.

“Your buddy’s recovered well,” he observes, crossing his arms, “from the mess earlier.”

“Huh? Yeah! He, uhh — shit, he sure has. We don’t make a hobby outta this, you know.” The kid goes to run a tired hand over his face, then seems to think better of it. There’s a puddle of liquid near his feet, with the telltale sheen of half-digested liquor. His eyes are haggard, mouth twisted up like he’s not sure whether to laugh or scream. Maybe it wasn’t an awful night for Gene, but _someone’s_ clearly taking the brunt of it.

“I hope not,” he observes, cocking his head slightly at another thud from inside the dumpster. “Strange sorta hobby.”

“It’s just that Julian — well, he’s an asshole, right, and he ain’t used to drinking like the rest of us — lightweight. You know how it is. He don’t have any rights.” As if to emphasize the point, the kid aims a kick at the side of the dumpster. From within, Julian yelps. “We try not to give ‘im too much, but he was real rattled from the whole thing, so we thought —“

“I remember.” Gene distinctly recalls Bill Guarnere’s unusual order, and the effort it took for him to remain stone-faced through it. “Vodka schnapps.”

“Yeah. A fuck-load of ‘em.” The kid offers up a smile, crooked and half-desperate. Whatever the hell his heart does in the moment, Gene isn’t prepared; it feels like a mini heart attack. To cover up, he hastily turns his gaze back on the dumpster again, making out like he’s more concerned than he really is. “I was gettin’ ready to call an Uber, but my phone — if _some jackass_ hadn’t tried snatching it outta my hands, and then not let go ‘til it went _flying_ —“

“Blamin’ me? Babe! Butterfingers!”

“Shut up, you!” Butterfingers Babe aims another kick at the dumpster’s side. This time, Julian _shouts._ His friend doesn’t seem a bit concerned. “Just find the damn thing!”

“You got an iPhone 6! ‘S right where it belongs!”

“You wanna buy me a new one?”

Julian has to pause, like he’s genuinely considering it. Butterfingers Babe taps his foot. Gene crosses his arms and waits.

“Like hell,” Julian finally declares, and a new round of thunks echo from within the garbage can.

“Okay,” says Gene. That’s all it takes to get Butterfingers’s attention back on him, like for a moment he’d genuinely forgotten Gene was there. As soon as their eyes lock, though, the kid flashes him a smile like Gene’s never _seen_ before — downright fluorescent, definitely lit up by liquor, but something more, too. Gene’s never smiled like that at a stranger; hell, he’s never smiled like that in his life, and definitely never had one sent his way.

It takes a minute for his thoughts to snap back on track again, still wavering dangerously, like the kid’s grin has shot the wheels right out from under him. “Okay,” he says again, clearing his throat. “Uhh, if you want, I can just call you a ride.”

“Nah, that ain’t your job. Thanks, but you don’t gotta —“

“I don’t mind.” Gene shrugs, tucking his hands in the pockets of his jeans to hide them from the biting cold. “Don’t actually work here anyways, so…”

Butterfingers Babe’s brows furrow. Slowly, he tilts his head.

“You mean, you… just walked in and started pouring drinks, then?”

It takes an inhuman amount of effort for Gene to hide a smirk. “Yeah. Call it a hobby.”

“You can _do that?_ Holy shit.” The kid stamps his foot on the ground, turning to the trash can as if genuinely forgetting that his buddy can’t react back at him. “Did you hear that? Julian! We could take over a bar for real!”

“Always been your fantasy, babe, not m— _ahhhgah_ , god _dammit_ , there’s a rat!”

As the eight circle of hell echoes from inside the dumpster, Butterfingers turns his wide grin back on Gene. “So, how do you even — like…” As his words trail off, his smile calcifies at the corners, before crumbling away. “Hey, you’re yanking my chain, arentcha?”

Now Gene really can’t help it — he smiles, quick and unashamed. “Sorry.”

“You really got my hopes up.” He doesn’t look too upset, though, even as he drags a hand through his struggle hair and shakes his head. “Damn. New plan, Jules.”

“Call the police,” shrieks Julian, “The army! _Satan!”_

“Must be the name of the rat,” Gene observes sagely.

Butterfingers crosses both arms over his chest, and takes a step back, bracing against his heel. Gene mirrors the casual posture. The both watch for a few moments, enjoying the show, as Julian apparently wrestles with one of Philadelphia’s notorious cannibal street rats and emerges victorious from the fray. At last, he breaks into fresh air, exploding from between bags of garbage like the parasite in _Alien_. His black hair is a scruffy mess, there are scratches on his cheeks that he’ll definitely need some shots for, and when he thrusts his arm into the air, a banana peel dangles from it.

“I found it! I found your goddamn phone!”

“Amazing,” Butterfingers drawls. “Now can we get outta here before my nose freezes off my freakin’ face? All the booze in the world can’t make tonight warm.”

Julian makes a noncommittal noise, and suddenly vanishes back into the garbage bag abyss again, like someone’s grabbed his leg and pulled.

“For _chrissakes,_ Julian!”

“He always like this?” Gene can’t help but ask. “I mean… uh, has he done similar stuff, in the time you’ve been…” Butterfingers stares blankly at him. Gene gestures vaguely, as if that stands a chance of making his meaning any clearer. “I mean. Not to be rude.”

“You ain’t being rude. He’s an idiot.”

“Yeah, but…” Gene clears his throat, intensely uncomfortable. “Did he do this on your first date, too?”

 _“Dating?”_ The word escapes the kid’s mouth in a squawk loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood. Gene jumps, and scrambled to regain his composure; in that time, Butterfingers has already doubled over, wheezing. “Jesus, Julian, didja know we’re on a date?”

“No kidding,” Julian calls from inside the dumpster. “Y’gotts tell me these things, Babe.”

With two drunken strangers laughing in his face at three in the morning — one of them hanging out of a dumpster — Gene suddenly feels like the fool. To be fair, what else is he supposed to think — hearing _Babe, Babe,_ over and over again?

“My _name’s_ Babe,” the Babe in question clarifies. “I mean — it’s really Edward, but everyone calls me Babe, even my ma, though she says —“

“No one cares,” says Julian. “Now goddamn help me, huh? The rat’s comin’ back.”

Suddenly, ending this encounter as soon as possible— and saving whatever dignity he has left — is more tempting than a twelve-hour nap. Gene gestures towards the struggling Julian with renewed eagerness. “We should probably —“

“Yeah, we really should!” agrees Babe, spinning back around again. Only then does Gene feel comfortable getting closer. Somehow, with lots of trial and error, they each manage to seize hold of one of Julian’s gangly arms. With a great tug, they haul him out. He ends up sprawled on the pavement, a lot worse for wear, but with an iPhone in his hand.

“Ha ha,” he declares, and, victorious, flops backwards onto the filthy ground. “Ha ha ha, ha. I did it.”

“Sure did, buddy,” Babe agrees, snatching the phone out of his hand. His nose crinkles as soon as he’s holding it; too quickly, he tosses it back down onto Julian’s chest, wiping his hand off on the rear of his jeans. The alleyway isn’t that well-lit, but when he looks back up, Gene catches a spark of hope in his eyes.

“Hey, y’know, I don’t mean to ask —“

Gene’s already ordering the Uber. “It’s no problem.”

Grateful, Babe gives him his address, and tucks his thumbs in his pockets as Gene sends the order through. When Gene holds up the phone for his inspection, he huffs in relief. “Twelve dollars, huh? I’ll pay you back.” He goes pawing through his pants, urgency increasing when both pockets turn up empty. “Shit, I mean — when I come back again, some other night, I’ll —“

“I won’t be here.” In spite of himself, Gene feels a stab of regret. “Actually don’t work here, I was just filling in tonight. As a favor to Smokey.”

Babe huffs a laugh, and it inflates Gene’s chest, warming him in spite of the bitter January chill. “That’s real great of you.” Babe runs a hand through his hair again, almost awkward, though the way he bounces on his heels dulls any tension between them. “I mean, I still feel bad —“

“Uber’s coming in two minutes,” Gene observes.

“Right! Umm, umm, ya know what —“ Babe snaps his fingers, then suddenly lunges forward, gesturing towards the phone in Gene’s hand. “My number! Is that okay? I could give you, and then, we could just —“

“Sure,” Gene says, in the same second as Babe blurts out, “Yeah?” They blink at each other for a second before Gene echoes, “Yeah,” and Babe exclaims “Sorry”, still at the same time.

As Babe claps a hand over his mouth, he can’t seem to help snorting. “Jesus _Christ,_ I’m a lot better at this when I’m less sober — swear to you, just gimme the chance to prove it. My number, it’s 215—“

Gene’s quick fingers tap the number into his contacts, despite the chill gradually creeping its way into each digit. He titles the contact “Edward”... and then, after a second thought, adds “Babe” in parentheses. Just to keep from mixing him up with Cousin Edward from Lafayette. 

A sleek grey car sidles up to the curb. Gene checks the license plate and nods towards it. 

“That’s your ride,” he says, and the weight of parting presses down against his chest until his ribs creak beneath it. “See you… around then, Edward.”

 _“Edward?”_ A squawk like that has no right to sound damn _charming_. “Aww, c’mon, what’d I just say —“

“Save ‘Babe’ for the second date,” Julian advises, still flat on the ground. His friend aims a precise kick to his ribs; grunting, Julian jolts upright, only to be hauled to his feet by Babe’s grip on the collar of his jacket. They lead each other forward, both stumbling over their own feet — though for Babe, that might be just the effort of leading his friend along. Or the vodka schnapps. Hard to be sure.

At the last moment, Babe looks up through the Uber’s brightly lit window and raises a hand to Gene. Gene waves back, half-smiling, until the car pulls away.

Left alone on a street corner at well past three in the morning, he sighs and tucks his phone back in his pocket. It’s an ungodly hour; he’s got work tomorrow; his schedule can barely accommodate his body’s inconvenient need for sleep, let alone falling in love.

But maybe, just maybe, Gene can fit in a few extra shifts at Smokey’s sometime soon.


End file.
